


Sensation

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Blood Kink, Consensual Violence, Cutting, Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Illumi greets him with a smack hard enough that Hisoka’s lip splits and starts to bleed crimson over his skin, and in the moment between the impact and the pain hitting Hisoka realizes /oh, it’s going to be like that./" Illumi is sadistic and Hisoka doesn't back down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensation

Hisoka doesn’t ask for it.

It’s happened before, of course. There are times when he calls Illumi, purrs some string of suggestion into the phone and they both know what he’s really saying. Then the next time they meet, an hour or a day or a month later, Illumi ties him to the bed or cuts his clothes off him, because Illumi never forgets what Hisoka asks for and Hisoka has never yet backed down. But sometimes, very occasionally, Illumi greets him with a smack hard enough that Hisoka’s lip splits and starts to bleed crimson over his skin, and in the moment between the impact and the pain hitting Hisoka realizes _oh, it’s going to be like that_.

He’s never backed down from that, either.

Illumi’s eyes are particularly flat on days like that, on days like today. Eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, and if that’s true the assassin doesn’t have much of a soul to start with. Not that that’s a problem, for Hisoka. He sees living people all the time, can chase down fire in dozens of different victims or playthings at his leisure, snuff it out or fan it higher as he sees fit. Fire is simple, fire is easy. It’s the cold calculation that is vanishingly rare, the ice under Illumi’s skin that draws Hisoka in, because in the end Hisoka runs hot with desire but never quite melts his own cold center, and he has always been narcissistic.

Even now, he doesn’t flare up, although that can be fun sometimes too, if he really wants to go all the way. But there’s something to be said for submitting, too, so he keeps his head turned away from the stinging slap of Illumi’s hand on his face and lifts a hand to wipe at his mouth. His fingers come away smeared scarlet with blood red as his hair, and from the aching ooze of his lip and the amount of liquid he must have blood on his teeth, streaked messy across his cheek.

Perfect.

He tips his head back, then, angles his chin so he’s looking up at Illumi instead of down on him. The assassin is actually shorter by an inch or two, but he’s drawn up to his full height and the ice in his eyes grants him at least six inches of actual presence. They could go toe-to-toe in this, have in the past, but Hisoka doesn’t feel like doling out pain today, just receiving it, so he smiles slowly and doesn’t lick his bleeding lip and says, “What did I do?”

Illumi shrugs, one shoulder moving without any shift of the rest of his body and no impact at all on his face. “Nothing,” he says, and means it, even though there are a thousand and one reasons he could offer, could invent and Hisoka would let him, wouldn’t argue. But he doesn’t need a reason, his answer says, and that sends a shudder of heat flickering blistering under Hisoka’s skin.

“No point in apologizing, then,” he says rather than asks. He doesn’t need confirmation and Illumi doesn’t bother to reply. The assassin reaches a hand up; Hisoka’s not sure if he’s going to jerk at the redhead’s hair or grab at his neck, isn’t sure if the other’s nails will be smooth or sharp when they land; then there’s chill skin against his, fingers on his neck, and Illumi pulls him bodily into the hotel room. Hisoka obeys the pull, doesn’t fight at all, but there’s still a stinging pain as Illumi turns him and shoves him forward. Hisoka hits the floor with his knees, not moving to break the impact with his hands, and he can feel the torn skin against his neck and shoulder from Illumi’s hold without needing to lift a hand to check for blood.

“You’re in a mood today,” he says instead, grinning down at the floor without lifting his chin. There’s the sound of the door slamming shut before Illumi steps in around him; the assassin lacks the carefully developed grace Hisoka presents, but his movements are elegant with a vicious efficiency. Hisoka’s never seen him waste any motion; everything has intention, a promise or a threat or both. When he looks up Illumi’s face is just as chill as when the redhead came in. The blood trickling against Hisoka’s neck and over his lip has no visible effect on the other’s expression; for a moment Hisoka blinks and can imagine Illumi drenched in blood, all his pale skin dyed scarlet with the life of others, and he is absolutely certain that the assassin’s gaze wouldn’t flicker even then.

If he weren’t already hard that would do it. As it is he flinches at the surge of desire and shifts his weight on the floor; it digs pressure into his bruised knees and pulls his clothes over his skin but neither helps. It’s useless, of course; Illumi is going to make him wait, he knows in the pit of stomach, knows with a certainty that has nothing to do with experience. He would make Illumi wait, were their positions reversed.

He’s expecting another hit, maybe a raking of Illumi’s nails across his cheek. It’s not that he’s bracing for it physically, but mentally he’s calculating and expecting a burst of sharp-bright pain, so when the punch comes it blows all the air out of his lungs. He starts to lift a hand to his face -- Illumi was aiming for his _eye_ , he can feel the delicate skin going purple-blue already -- before he catches himself and lets his arm fall back to his side. This time when Illumi steps in the assassin drops to a knee, aims lower but harder with his fist; Hisoka sees it in slow-motion, the movement of the other’s shoulder and arm and wrist all coming together in perfect harmony even before the impact crashes into his ribcage and forces all the air out of his lungs in a horrible strangled gasp.

Illumi is thorough about it. Hisoka appreciates that. His pain tolerance is higher than most, both naturally and from experience due to his own proclivities, and he’s certain that someone else would start pulling punches at some point. But Illumi is no one but himself, and Hisoka is just starting to fold up involuntarily around the pain of his fist when the knee comes in, crushes into precisely the same spot even though Hisoka’s body is flinching back and away defensively. The assassin’s fingers close back against Hisoka’s neck to hold him steady -- the dig of his nails barely even hurts, now, just a high counterpoint to the dull ache spreading across Hisoka’s ribs and the rising panic as his lungs refuse to inhale. Illumi shoves him back down to the floor, pins Hisoka’s shoulder back with his other hand and gives the redhead a new set of five tearing wounds through his shirt while he’s at it, and that’s when he really gets going. There’s a fist connecting with the inside of Hisoka’s knee, just barely shy of the impact needed to shatter something but more than enough to white out all of the redhead’s thoughts in a burst of flaring pain. Hisoka groans, pain and satisfaction crushing together until his spinning thoughts can’t tell what it actually sounds like when the noise leaves his throat.

Illumi doesn’t respond. Illumi doesn’t make any sound at all. The fingers in Hisoka’s shoulder twist and pull; it takes the redhead a moment to realize Illumi’s turning him over and not just grinding extra pain into his skin. He doesn’t need to do anything himself, though; Illumi is fully capable of flipping him onto his stomach, and even though Hisoka’s not fighting at all the assassin brings a knee up into the small of the other man’s back, leans forward so his weight shortens Hisoka’s breath and presses pain into the rising bruises over the other’s stomach. The weight is agonizing -- Hisoka’s reflexes lurch his stomach, try to heave so he’d be vomiting if there was anything in his stomach, but he knows better than to see Illumi after eating -- but face-down he can dig against the floor, too, and the pain is unreasonably offset or maybe exacerbated by the friction against his cock. It’s easy to buck against the floor, and even when Illumi leans forward harder to hold him in place it just heightens the bruising ache in his stomach and turns the ache of arousal into heat instead.

There’s the sound of cloth tearing; Illumi’s ripping his shirt open down the back, not being careful with his nails so there’s a flicker of hot pain just against Hisoka’s spine as the sharp edges dig too deep. That’s fine -- Hisoka can think about what he’ll wear out later -- and Illumi immediately follows this up with another punch into the muscle of Hisoka’s shoulder. The redhead drops to the floor, hisses against the carpet, and while he’s still catching his breath in the brief respite from active pain Illumi’s nails catch at the back of his pants and tear those open too. Hisoka hums in appreciation, even though the sound catches sharp on pain when Illumi shifts his weight again, and even though he knows he won’t get an answer he tips his head up away from the muffle of the floor and purrs, “Are you going to _fuck_ me, Illumi?” If he tips his head far enough he can see Illumi’s face; the assassin is watching his hands, which means that the flare of pain across Hisoka’s thigh from the assassin’s nails is deliberate and not accidental -- not that Hisoka really expected anything less -- but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink to acknowledge Hisoka’s rhetorical question.

The redhead doesn’t need an answer, anyway. He just likes the way the words feel on his tongue, the way they sound in his ringing ears. He keeps his head twisted so he can watch Illumi’s lack of reaction as he goes on, slurring the syllables over his split lip and letting blood drip to stain the carpet.

“ _Please_ , Illumi, _please_.” The words really are a plea, legitimate and sincere, but they come out more than half a taunt, especially when Hisoka arches his hips up off the floor like he’s offering himself to the assassin. Illumi looks away, comes up on his knees so he can reach up to the top of the dresser next to them; the pressure forces the air out of Hisoka’s lungs but he keeps talking in a strangled half-voice. “I want you to fuck me, I want you to tear me apart, I want you to beat me into the floor, you _could_ , you _should_ , _use_ me, Illumi, take me _apart_.”

Illumi moves; the assassin has come back so his weight in on his heels rather than digging into the knee still pressed into Hisoka’s back. He still isn’t looking at the redhead; his gaze is focused on his hands as he opens the bottle of lube and carefully pours liquid over his fingers. Hisoka is laughing, now, he sounds utterly manic and doesn’t care, his lip is bleeding and his eye is swelling shut and his stomach is just one deep ache and he’s more turned on than he’s been in months.

“Don’t bother,” he gasps. “You don’t have to bother with the lube, I don’t care, you could tear me open with your claws if you want, Illumi, whatever you want, _anything_.” He means it, too, with the sincerity that only pain can ever bring out in him, so when Illumi twists his hand and shoves two fingers into him at once the moan he makes is as much disappointment at the lack of pain as reaction to the pressure. Illumi is efficient in this as in everything else, and it’s not like he has to be wary of hurting the other man; he thrusts in hard and fast right away, spreading his fingers wider almost immediately, and Hisoka shudders against the floor and rocks himself against the carpet and wonders if he can come before Illumi is even inside him.

He’s close to start, but Illumi knows him too well to spend very long opening him up, and Hisoka’s only just starting to breathe hard in actual pleasure instead of pain-response when the assassin draws his fingers back and out, shifts himself so he’s between Hisoka’s legs instead of leaning in against his back. That’s worse than all the hurt that went before; sensation Hisoka can take, he’ll bleed and bruise and beg for more, but deprival he doesn’t appreciate even a little. That’s Illumi’s game, not his, and he hisses in legitimate frustration and comes up onto his elbows so he can glare at the assassin.

“Don’t make me _wait_ ,” he growls. Illumi’s getting his pants open, but the redhead’s words draw his flat gaze back to the other’s face, and he blinks for the first time Hisoka remembers noticing since he came in. His hand comes out, Hisoka sees it coming but doesn’t flinch, and the back of Illumi’s long fingers catch across his face, the back edge of razor-sharp nails tearing three smooth grooves into Hisoka’s cheek. The redhead sighs in satisfaction at the burn of blood rising to his opening skin, and the flare of feeling is only just fading when Illumi’s hands close on his hips and drag him back over the carpet, shifting him up into the angle he needs. Hisoka recognizes it, arches his back and tips himself into position, and the nails of Illumi’s left hand starburst into pain against his skin even before the assassin pushes himself forward and into the redhead.

Hisoka doesn’t scream, or moan, or whimper; he _purrs_ , satisfaction bleeding up into his throat. When he licks his lip he can taste the iron of his own blood, the slow ache from his cheek and his lip and the darker, heavier pain in his bruised eye and stomach, and the push of Illumi’s cock into him, he’s not even sure if it hurts or feels good. He’s never been very good at telling those apart anyway. It’s just sensation, nerve endings flaring to life under every inch of his skin, and when Illumi pushes him down his own length grinds into the carpet and the sound in his throat turns into a moan instead.

He doesn’t get his hands down underneath him. He doesn’t need to. Illumi’s not being particularly thoughtful; the assassin is moving quick and clean and angling himself for his own satisfaction, not for Hisoka’s, but the redhead is flushed and burning with response already and doesn’t need anything else. He goes passive and unresisting, lets the motion of Illumi’s hips into him rock him slightly against the floor, and it takes longer that way but it’s better, too, inevitable satisfaction coming much slower than he can ever manage himself. After a moment the assassin lets one of his hands go, the one not yet drawing blood, sinks his fingers into a fist of the other man’s hair and draws Hisoka’s head back, angles his neck back so far the redhead can barely breathe and can’t manage more than whines of response. It’s when his desperate gasps aren’t enough, when the oxygen he can manage isn’t sustainable and his vision starts to blur, that Hisoka knows he’s going over the edge.

When it does break over him -- in advance of Illumi’s orgasm for all that the assassin is getting far more stimulation -- it rocks through all the bruises of his body, convulses his muscles and tightens his throat so he goes perfectly silent for a moment, choking on air he can’t get and shuddering in a spiral of sensation, the involuntary spasm of orgasm triggering pain that just adds to the flood of feeling pouring over him. Illumi lets him go in the middle of it and Hisoka’s throat makes a desperate sound as his head comes forward, a wail of agonized pleasure that’s still shivering in his mouth when the assassin goes still and shudders over and into him. His hand on Hisoka’s hip digs in deeper for a moment so the redhead hisses in pained encouragement; then Illumi sighs, and lets him go, and slides out and away.

Hisoka pants into the carpet for a moment; then he twists his head to look back at Illumi. The assassin has rocked back on his heels again; there’s still no expression on his face, but he’s looking at Hisoka, which is as close as the other ever comes to asking if Hisoka is okay. The redhead pulls up a grin, flutters his eyelashes ostentatiously at the other.

“Aww, _sweetheart_ ,” he purrs. “Did you _miss_ me?”

Illumi doesn’t smile. Illumi doesn’t smile, but he does blink, slowly and deliberately, and Hisoka laughs and lets himself fall back to the floor, closes his eyes and lets exhaustion and pain and satisfaction lull him into delirium.


End file.
